


Sublimation

by fencer_x



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 11:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencer_x/pseuds/fencer_x
Summary: A series of one-shots, unconnected and out of order. Random snapshots of Victor and Yuuri and their interplay. May be updated infrequently.





	1. Wind in your hair ~ Touch

“Your hair’s getting long again,” Yuuri marveled, reaching to brush a wayward strand that had crossed Victor’s part back into place. “Will you grow it out?”

“Hm?” Victor opened one eye, staring up at Yuuri with a lazy, hooded gaze. He looked entirely too comfortable lying on the cold, frost-bitten ground of the overlook they’d come across on their evening jog. The chill of fall was sharp even so early in the season, and the lingering gales from a far-off typhoon at sea whipped the shoreline mercilessly, threatening to muss Victor’s hair again. He reached up, running his fingers through his hair to feel its length. “…Do you want me to?”

“Eh? Why does it…” Yuuri fidgeted in place, forcing his eyes to fix on the distant horizon, because otherwise he’d find himself lost in Victor’s commanding gaze–though that didn’t mean Victor felt similarly compelled, and Yuuri could feel him staring, handsy and demanding as Victor himself. He sniffed, sucking in a sharp breath of the crisp autumn air. “If you want to.”

“You want me to if I want to?” Victor cocked his head, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips—they did that a lot around Yuuri. He hated it. “But I only want to if you want me to.”

“That—you’re not making any sense, Victor,” Yuuri groused, glancing back with a frown. Victor hauled himself up into a sitting position and scooted closer, until their thighs and shoulders met. It was uncomfortably warm where they touched. Yuuri didn’t dare move.

“Am I not? I thought my question was quite simple.”

“But why should it matter what I want?”

“Because.” Victor leaned over, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder—he was so close, Yuuri had to crane his neck back to keep from brushing noses. “I want to give you what you want.” He hung there a moment, holding Yuuri’s gaze captive just long enough to remind Yuuri he _could_ , and then he was shifting to his feet, brushing the leaf litter from his track pants. “But first I have to know what that is.” He jerked his head, beckoning. “Come—we shouldn’t be jogging in the dark.”

Yuuri swallowed, then nodded several times in quick succession, shakily rolling onto his knees and then to unsteady legs. Victor took a slow, leisurely stroll up the bank and onto the running path that flanked the shoreline, stretching muscles that had tightened in their brief respite.

“I—” He started, and Victor cocked his head to the side, ear pricked–challenging Yuuri to finish his thought. He took another sharp breath of the salty seafoam air. “You had…long hair. The first time I ever saw you. It was the Junior World Championships and–” He winced inwardly—there he went again, sounding like some gushing fanboy. “Just…I’d…I’d like to see you like that. Again.“

He could feel his cheeks heating—what if Victor asked _why_? What if Yuuri had to actually _think_ about why? What if any excuse he made came out sound– _weird_? Victor was funny, he was quirky–but even his generous attitude had to have its limits, and—

“…It’ll take some time, to get it that length again. Years, even.” Victor raised a brow. “Can you wait that long?”

Could he wait? He’d been waiting all his _life_ to stand on the same dais as Victor—and even if this wasn’t quite the same, even if Victor wasn’t asking this as one competitor to another, or…or even, Yuuri suspected, as a coach to a pupil, it was _something_. It was Victor, acknowledging him. Responding to him. “…If it’s worth it.”

He zipped up his windbreaker and jogged up the incline to stand alongside Victor, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath as the wind ruffled his hair. He brushed it from his eyes absently, but Victor took his wrist in one hand, reaching out with the other to gently rearrange his bangs.

“Shall we do it together?”

“Eh? Together—? But, I wouldn’t look good with–I mean, not that you look _good_ with—not that you _didn’t_ look good with—!!” He clapped his hands over his mouth, before it ran away with him, and grimaced. He needed a soak and something warm in his stomach.

Victor just chuckled softly, ruffling his hair until it was messier than even the wind had made it. “I disagree.“

“W–with what…?”

But Victor simply checked his watch, timed his pulse, and then took off down the path, the slap of his sneakers against the concrete all the invitation Yuuri needed to give chase.


	2. sun on your face ~ catch me if you can

“ _Oof!”_ Victor winced, forcing a grin to prove he wasn’t gravely injured, and lifted up onto his elbows. “I thought this was a game of tag—not rugby.“

Yuuri’s smile was bright enough to rival the sun winding its way toward the horizon, and he made no move whatsoever to remove himself from his position sprawled across Victor’s midsection. “And I thought we agreed not to hold back.“

A sharp bark announced Makkachin’s protest to being left out of the pile, and they were soon a giggling jumble of arms and legs and paws as the poodle pounced. It took several long minutes to disentangle themselves, until both humans were lying spread eagle on their backs, staring up at the sky, while Makkachin went charging off after a butterfly, yipping excitedly. 

Victor felt something brush his finger, then cocked his head to the side to see Yuuri brushing a finger soft and light along his own, twitching in invitation. They were too far apart to hold hands, but the contact was enough. It didn’t take much these days.

With a concentrated flexing of his muscles, Victor rolled over, taking two turns to collapse against Yuuri’s side, using his bicep as a pillow. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and grinned at the sun beating warm but not baking over his skin. 

“Yurio would hate this place,” Yuuri remarked, a smile in his voice. “He’d say it’s a barren wasteland and that we wasted a Sunday afternoon coming here.”

“Well Yurio’s not here—and he thinks anywhere with less than three bars of cell reception is a ‘barren wasteland’.” He reached up to draw Yuuri’s hand over his chest, drumming his fingers on top of Yuuri’s. “You wish he were here?”

Yuuri shrugged, jostling Victor’s head. “…It’s different, when he’s not here. Quieter.”

Victor’s grin curled at the corners, and he shifted around until he was up on his hands and knees, straddling Yuuri. “If it’s less quiet you’re wanting, I can think of a few fun ways to make some noise…”

Yuuri was already squirming beneath him, cheeks flushing and lashes beating frantic as bees’ wings. “We’re in _public—_ "

“No we’re not—it’s a barren wasteland, just like our absent Yurio would say.”

“No it’s _not—_ it’s a few empty fields one lot over from our lodge. And—” He wrinkled his nose cutely. “…Makkachin’s here too.”

Victor had to laugh, pulling back to cover his mouth. “You—Makkachin’s walked in on us doing _far_ worse than—”

“Yeah?! And it was mortifying then, too!!” Yuuri covered his face with both hands, curling in on himself. “Makkachin’s so pure…he shouldn’t have had to see…“

“Makkachin’s happy so long as I’m happy. And I’m happy so long as you’re happy.” He crawled over Yuuri’s torso again, drawing away his hands and using his knees to force Yuuri to unfold. “Let me see you. _Yuuri_.”

Like a pill bug, Yuuri slowly uncurled and straightened, arms falling to his side as he left himself open and vulnerable. A year ago—six months, even—Yuuri would never have let himself do this. Would never have let Victor _see_ him. Which, for someone who it turned out had wanted to be seen and acknowledged by Victor for the better part of his life, seemed quite strange. But he’d held back for the longest time, perhaps thinking—stupidly, Victor thought—that Victor wouldn’t find him worthy, would laugh at the very notion of someone like Yuuri dreaming himself in remotely the same _league_ as Victor.

And Victor had, he would admit, done Yuuri a poor turn their first face-to-face encounter. He himself had likely gone a long way toward exacerbating Yuuri’s already fragile, self-deprecating state. But he’d tried very hard to since make up for it. And after much, _much_ tribulation, Yuuri finally started _letting_ him.

He lowered his head, until his forehead rested against Yuuri’s and their noses brushed. Yuuri didn’t flinch, to his credit–but nor did he cock his head to the side to invite further attentions. Victor had never quite discovered if this was Yuuri’s way of teasing, or if he was simply frozen with nerves—perhaps a bit of both. 

“Can I take off your glasses?”

“No—I’ll lose them, or they’ll get stepped on.”

Victor snorted softly. So contrary, his piglet. “You really ought to get contact lenses.“

“Why is it you only ever suggest that at times like _this_?”

“Because times like _this_ are the times I find them most inconvenient.” He blew softly over the frames, fogging up the lenses and drawing an offended squawk from Yuuri. “See? Terribly inconvenient.”

“I just—cleaned them—” He started to squirm again, and before he could jostle free, Victor seized the moment to slide their lips together, nibbling Yuuri’s lower lip before swiping a tongue out to deepen the kiss just enough to draw out a startled gasp. “V–Victor, we _can’t_ …”

But he never clarified what _exactly_ they couldn’t do, so Victor just held there, waiting, listening to the soft rustle of the wind through the sage grass and Yuuri’s heart thudding in his chest. He wanted to press his ear against it, skin to skin, but Yuuri was already being more indulgent than usual—probably the sun, its overpowering warmth sapping his strength.

He smiled, a bit chagrined. “…I know.” Pulling back, he let Yuuri breathe.

Yuuri was immediately up on his elbows, glasses sliding down his nose and weeds in his hair. “I—I mean, just, not _here_ …” He glanced around, as if fearing they were being spied upon even now. “Maybe…after dinner, back at the lodge…“

Victor quirked a brow. “After dinner, what?”

Yuuri pushed his glasses back up, struggling to his knees as he brushed the grass and dirt from his pants. “ _Whatever_ ,“ he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Mm, _whatever_?”

Yuuri shot him a look. “You know what I mean.” And he did, truly. Yuuri was _not_ the same man who’d scrambled from Victor’s approach or flinched at his touch. If he said _whatever_ , then he _meant_ it—and Victor’s heart skipped a beat, anticipatory heat already curling in the pit of his stomach. 

Yuuri turned, back to Victor, and glanced about for Makkachin, who’d likely gone off chasing squirrels, and Victor drew up close behind him, draping his long limbs over Yuuri. “Let me see you again, then? After.“

He knew his weight hung heavy on Yuuri, from the tension in his shoulders and the soft _oof_ of effort he released on contact, but he reached up, and his fingers found Victor’s again. He squeezed, and Victor thought he could feel Yuuri’s pounding heart reverberating through his body. “…If you’ll let me see you, too.“

Victor grinned so wide his cheeks hurt, then shoved Yuuri away by the shoulders and took off for the treeline with long strides. “If you can catch me!”


	3. tangled in the sheets ~ lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul Mate AU, where your soul mate's first words to you are marked on your skin.

“Nngh— _Vic_ tor…” Yuuri panted, tiny shudders rippling through him as Victor laid his lips over the characters painted in dusky lines of melanin across the inside of Yuuri’s thigh. He darted a tongue out, laying the blade over what he’d since learned was the _gonben_ before using the tip to trace the rest of the character in perfect stroke order. 

Yuuri knocked his head with his opposite thigh, and Victor glanced up at him in chiding irritation. “I’m busy, Yuuri.”

“You’re—not busy, you’re wasting _time_ ,” Yuuri huffed, rubbing his shin down Victor’s arm. “Can’t you see I’m…“

Victor let his eyes drift down, lazy and indulgent before lingering on what he took to be a rather painfully hard cock. “Mmm, I had noticed.“

Yuuri squeezed his thighs, locking Victor between them. “Then—enough with my Mark…” He wrinkled his nose. “You know they’ve got a word now for people with a Mark kink…”

Victor rolled his eyes but played along, crawling up and over Yuuri’s torso to let their midsections slot together as he braced his arms on either side of Yuuri. “And you think I’m one of these…“

“Mark Maniacs,“ Yuuri helpfully supplied, arching his back to try and draw himself against Victor. “There was an article on it online this morning.”

“Well if it’s on the Internet, then it must be true.” 

Yuuri snorted softly. “There’re some people…“ He craned his neck when Victor leaned in to suckle at the point where the line of his neck blended seamlessly into a shoulder firmed and toned from hours a week on the weight bench. “…Who can’t even get off without touching or looking at someone’s Mark.”

“Well—” Victor reasoned between gentle, slow kisses along the collarbone, “We know quite well I’m not one of _those_.”

“Y-yeah…” Yuuri allowed, distant and distracted, with his head thrown back against the stark white sheets that would need to be changed for the third time in as many days, if they had anything to say about it.

Victor resented being thought of as a _Mark Maniac_ like Yuuri teased. He wasn’t obsessed with Yuuri’s mark, nor did he have any difficulties finding completion without fantasizing about one. He was just so _happy_. So _relieved_ to have found his mate—and truth be told, still a little scared, even five years on, that this was all some elaborate dream that would shatter if he didn’t keep up a silent mantra of _thanks_.

Thanks, that against staggering odds, after having _long_ since given up even the faintest of hope that he’d have to do anything but _settle_ , he’d found the _one person_ meant for him. Branded at birth to be _his_ , just like Victor had been branded to be _theirs_. So Yuuri would have to forgive him his little quirks—as Victor didn’t think he could bring himself to be rid of them.

He’d brooded, for a long time—sulked and glowered and pouted because it wasn’t _fair_. It wasn’t fair that his after-school instructor’s Mark had been an offer to share an umbrella, and his best friend in middle school’s had been a price check on a chaise longue—it wasn’t fair that it felt like everyone else had been blessed with unique, telling Marks, while he was stuck with, of all words, of all phrases in all languages, his own dull _name_.

How many times had Victor heard people say his name, in his lifetime? It happened perhaps a dozen times a day, in different tones and timbres and backed by different emotions: greeting, frustration, excitement. Too often, and from too many corners, to remember to sit up and take notice, to _hope_ that maybe this one, maybe _this_ person reaching out to him, calling for his attention, was the one he ought to be paying attention to. 

He’d moved on after a while, forgotten that there was anything special about _Victor_. Stopped standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, wondering when that sharp, Cyrillic blemish might finally _mean_ something. When rinkmates asked him, over drinks after practice, what his Mark was, he’d say _Order number 376_ or _The park is closing in ten minutes_ or once, when he was a little tipsy already, _How’d you get that stuck in there?_

They would laugh, and then the conversation would shift, and Victor could once again push all thought of his name, his Mark, to the back of his mind. His Mark didn’t matter—his step did. His Mark didn’t matter—his line did. His Mark didn’t matter—his career did. He was lonely—but he could forget it, for a while, and lose himself in a new routine or in perfecting a jump. So he poured everything he was, everything he might never be, into his choreography, and he _danced_. Hoping, somewhere out there, someone was watching who’d see him, _know_ him, and call his name.

_“A commemorative photo? Sure.”_

Thinking back on it now brought a smile to his face—and as if sensing that Victor was reflecting on something Yuuri wouldn’t like, Yuuri nudged him with a knee, a frown in his voice. “What’re you smiling about?”

“You,“ he answered, at once both in truth and in jest, and drew up straight, shuffling forward on his knees until he’d drawn his shaft alongside Yuuri’s. “See?“ He gyrated his hips, letting the velvety skin slide together, drawing back to expose a bright pink head before slipping forward again. Yuuri swallowed back a throaty cry, and Victor leered. “Always you.“

He reached down, long fingers stretched to take the both of them in one hand, and he gave a gentle tug. Yuuri’s head was tucked to one side, face half buried in the wrinkling sheets, and he had his eyes clenched shut. He never liked to watch—which was a pity, because there was _so_ much to see. Slowly, he coaxed their cocks to proud attention, gaze fixed, as Yuuri had so long ago ordered, on him and him alone. As if a Mark alone could ever rouse him, and not the man it was attached to!

 _“Why did you wait so long to tell me?”_ he’d asked Yuuri once, not hurt–but confused. Yuuri had despaired, head ducked in shame, and delivered a flushing, mumbled reply, _“I…I wanted you to love me for me, and…not because my Mark said you were supposed to.”_ And then, because Yuuri was an astonishing human being, full of such depth of emotion and feeling, he’d cried for Victor, realizing how difficult his own Mark must have been to live with. _“I’m sorry,”_ he’d apologized, a blubbering mess, _“I’m sorry I made you wait!”_

Victor quite thought he was the one who ought to be apologizing, going off and falling in love with someone he’d had no idea might be his mate instead of having the patience to wait for them to present themselves in due course. But Yuuri didn’t seem to mind, so Victor simply basked in the warmth of a bond that fate clearly approved of and impressed his gratitude on Yuuri _bodily_.

He snapped his hips when his hand wasn’t moving quickly enough, jolting Yuuri and wringing from him a cry for mercy, not so rough—but faster, faster, _Victor_.

He loved the sound of his name on those lips—it just had a different _ring_ to it, and he swore he could feel a pleasant little sting from his Mark whenever Yuuri said it. Muttered in bemusement, groaned in frustration, keened in pleasure, it didn’t matter—he wanted to hear it all, every which way he could, because he’d spent so long trying to ignore it. He needed to learn to love his name again, even half as much as he loved the person saying it.

He could feel his climax building at the base of his spine, just behind his balls–tense and tight and knife-edge of pleasure and pain, like landing a tricky jump but still missing gold by a tenth of a point. It made him push on, push hard to get back to the dais—and his hand was flying now, the slick leaking from their tips worked into a white foam as he brought them close and closer to the tipping point.

Yuuri was babbling now—a melodic mix of huffs and whines and pleas in no less than three languages that went straight to Victor’s hips. He snapped back, holding off his own pleasure by finishing Yuuri’s with his whole focus, and he could feel his balls clench in sympathy when Yuuri arched off the bed and spurted lacy white ribbons over his stomach. 

Victor watched Yuuri, his chest heaving with effort as he lay there in the throes of his orgasm, and took himself in hand, pumping with sharp, deliberate strokes. Bedraggled black hair, cheeks high and pink with a hint of winter chub still clinging to the bone structure, a toned chest belying a belly that betrayed his numerous diet _cheat days_ , and strong, thick thighs that wouldn’t let Victor go until they were through with him. Yuuri’s ankles were still hooked behind Victor, and he bit his lip, grunting, and spilled into his hand. 

His slick coated his fingers and palms, and he reached out, smearing it over Yuuri’s mark in a grimy, gooey swipe. This was his, and _this_ was his too. 

Yuuri gave a breathy, grumbled protest, staring down with hooded eyes. “What’re…what’re you—that’s gross, Victor…”

Victor ignored him, reaching with his free hand to grab Yuuri’s wrist, rub his fingers in his own slick pooling on his stomach, and then press it to Victor’s chest, palm splayed over his name. Yuuri struggled, trying to pull his arm back, but Victor held firm. “Don’t,” was all he said, and Yuuri stilled, letting whatever moment this was pass.

He didn’t suppose he could say he didn’t believe in fate—not when things like Marks existed, drawing destined pairs together for their shot at happily-ever-after. But knowing they were meant to be and actually _living_ that meant-to-be life were two very different things.

So he gave thanks; he whispered _spasibo_ like a secret into the _gonben_ , and he thrilled at the way Yuuri shivered whole-bodily when he blew a warm breath over his leavings, drying it like a sticky film that wouldn’t come off until Yuuri showered later. He crawled up and over Yuuri, collapsing at his side and grinning when he caught the confused frown pudging his cheeks.

“…You’re weird, Victor.“ He clenched his fist, wrinkling his nose. “I need to go wash my hands…”

Victor looped a leg around one of Yuuri’s, holding him in place. “Stay.”

And Yuuri did, allowing Victor to lace their fingers together with little more protest than a slight flare to his nostrils.

Victor burrowed closer, his free hand slipping down to rest over the Mark on Yuuri’s thigh, like a security blanket.

Yuuri released a stuttered sigh. “…Please don’t touch me there unless you’re going to start something else.”

“Now who’s a Mark Maniac?“

“Not the Mark,” Yuuri corrected, reaching with his free hand to trace the _V_ on Victor’s pectoral. “The man under it.” He frowned to himself. “…I really am sorry. For not telling you all that time. It must have been so frustrating for you–”

Victor surged forward, silencing that train of thought before it ran off the tracks. Rubbing noses, he grinned against Yuuri’s lips. “You’re many, many things to me—but frustrating is not one. Though I’ll not turn down a more forthright apology, if you’re offering.”

And somewhere along the way, Yuuri had managed to hook his legs around Victor’s torso again, a sly little grin quirking at his lips. “…If you want an apology, come take it.“

So Victor did.


	4. sweet nothings ~ I'll never let you go

He's grateful, beyond measure, when Yuu-chan throws herself bodily between Yuuri and the reporters and well-wishers bearing down on him, granting him a moment's respite in the locker room after everything that's just happened. He doesn't know where to begin—it's all still a blur in his mind. Like he blacked out the moment blades touched ice. He remembers watching Yurio, being captivated by the routine he'd only caught glimpses of in practice and wondering if he could've pulled it off himself if he'd been allowed to skate to _Agape_ like he'd wanted to initially. It wasn't just the technical skill involved, but the emotion—like he was seeing Yurio crack and crumble before trying to pick up the pieces of what he'd been before as gracefully as possible. The crowds had cheered, and Victor had praised him, and in that moment, an ugly stab of jealousy—and doubt—had struck through the stupor he'd been in throughout Yurio's routine.

So he'd done the only thing he could think of, launching himself at Victor and sliding his arms up and around his neck, mumbling into the thick material of his jacket _Please watch me_. He'd never presumed to demand Victor's attention before, might have collapsed beneath it even a week prior, but just then...he'd needed it. He'd needed Victor to see what he'd made of Yuuri, and what Yuuri had become just for him. He needed Victor to see what he still had to offer.

It'd been over in an instant, a flash of muscle strain and the cool grit of ice beneath his palm as he flubbed the Salchow—he could almost _hear_ Yurio snicker at him—and then he'd been holding that final pose for dear life as the crowds erupted around him and Victor shouted that he was the tastiest katsudon dish he'd ever seen. That shouldn't have made his stomach flip giddily, but it had, and the almost nauseating elation had followed him up onto the podium, where he'd been unable to string two words together until Victor had wrapped an arm around him, hands grounding him, and he'd felt the warmth seeping through his gloves, past the thin lycra of the skin-tight uniform.

He can still feel it now, a burning spreading up his arms and over his chest and down into the pit of his stomach. He collapses onto the bench, back curving forward as he tries to rest his head between his legs and stop the room from spinning. His heart is still beating a rapid tattoo, like he's still in the midst of a performance, and the heat feels like a fever. He wants to laugh—he wants to cry. Victor's _his_ now—and he's grown fond of Yurio, but he's not sad to no longer have to fight for Victor's attention. He's won it, fair and square—though now he fears he's going to crumple under the full force of Victor's focus. As much a rival as Yurio had been, he'd also been a buffer, and now Yuuri will have to stand and face Victor unprotected, raw, vulnerable.

He takes a deep breath, clenches his eyes shut, and exhales slowly. He can hear the murmur of voices just outside, with Yuu-chan's commanding tone brooking no argument. He wishes he were home, able to sink into the onsen and just let everything melt away so that he can start taking stock of everything fresh and unencumbered. But he's not there yet—he hasn't even unlaced his skates, and Victor's costume is soaked in sweat and riding up in uncomfortable places. He awkwardly archest and reaches around, fumbling for the zipper to draw it down. He peels himself out of the sleeves and lets the top half fall open like petals on a flower. The chill of the rink brushes over his flushed skin, and a giggle starts in the back of his throat, hitching and whining.

The door to the locker room opens, and the sound of the throng outside grows louder for a moment before being abruptly cut off as the door shuts again.

"Yuuri."

He's got the hiccups—soft little squeaks from trying to swallow his hysterical giggles, and he wipes at his eyes because they're watering now and he doesn't want Victor to think he's been crying. He must look a sight: sitting here on the bench, half naked, skates still laced and red-nosed and red-eyed as his back heaves. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, why he can't manage to catch his breath, why he can't remember skating the most important routine of his life, why he's still so _hot_ , like Victor's branded him. 

And then he really is crying, because these thoughts frustrate him, and he ought to be happy—he _is_ , he's so happy—but he's crying for some reason, and _still_ hiccupping. He rubs at his eyes again, palms digging in, and Victor crosses the distance from the door in three long strides to squat in front of him, gently taking Yuuri's hands in his own and drawing them aside. 

"I—I can't make them stop—I don't know why—"

"It's fine. It happens to a lot of us."

But it's never happened to _him_. Yuuri's never been this moved by a loss or win—he takes his results as they come, and while losses hit hard and wins are hard won, he's never devolved into an emotional mess like this. He tells himself it's just the routine, that he's unlocked something and it's thrown him off. He'll be fine again in a few days, after he's had some time to come back to himself instead of trying to embody _eros_ , but that doesn't solve the issue of what's happening right now.

He's breathing fast and hard now, and his lungs hurt from breathing in the cold air. He thinks he sees concern flash across Victor's features, through the blurry haze of tears he can't seem to stop, but then Victor eases up and wraps one arm around Yuuri's back to draw him into a hug, rubbing his broad palms over Yuuri's back like a parent consoling a child. It's warm, but not hot at least. It feels good, the way his fingers trace Yuuri's spin before following the dips and curves of muscles Yuuri's finally managed to reclaim. 

And then his other arm—is snaking between them, and Yuuri doesn't question it for all of five seconds until Victor tugs at the loose material of the costume pooled at Yuuri's waist. He thinks for a moment that Victor's trying to help him out of it, but he only tugs just enough to slip his hand under the hem, curling his warm-but-not-hot fingers around Yuuri's cock before he can register what's happening. 

Yuuri seizes, a garbled squawk in his throat, but Victor tightens the arm around him and shushes him softly. "You'll feel better," he explains, and gives a gentle tug as proof, thumb sweeping over the head as he works in steady, utilitarian strokes. He shudders, though he can't tell if that's from Victor touching him or shock, but he lets it happen. Victor continues to work him—his cock, his back, and all the while in between whispering in Russian what Yuuri actually thinks is more critique of his routine. 

He closes his eyes to black out the soft blur everything has taken on through his tears and just waits for Victor to finish him. He clenches his fists in the material of Victor's jacket and tries not to thrust into his grip, because somehow that feels like it would be rude. He remembers the medal dais—where was Yurio? Where is he now? Is he off somewhere licking his wounds?—and he wonders if it will always be like that now: Victor a solid, reassuring bulk at his back ready to do what he needs to if it means keeping Yuuri grounded. He wonders if that's what this is.

He comes with a bitten back cry that dies sweetly in his throat, clinging to Victor and feeling all that heat dissipate like air from a stuck balloon. He's breathing hard when he opens his eyes again—and everything's clear. "See? Better," Victor reasons simply, reaching for the tissue box and deftly wiping off his hands before passing it to Yuuri. Before Yuuri can so much as entertain the notion of Victor perhaps wanting compensation—or a returned favor at least—Victor stands, straightening, and knocks on Yuuri's locker. "Come now—your local newspaper wants an interview. Mustn't keep your fans waiting!" He flashes a blithe grin and then swans back out into the fracas. Yuuri can't move a muscle.

If he thinks this will somehow change something between them, Yuuri finds that he is sorely mistaken. Victor still gets drunk with his father until unseemly hours of the morning, still tries to slip into Yuuri's room—but never presses once firmly turned down—and is as harsh a taskmaster as ever, even if his most scathing critiques are delivered with a smile. He's almost forgotten that quiet, strange moment in the locker room—until he finds himself there again, a week and three days later, with Victor's forehead pressed against his and Victor's hand in his training pants, working him to the edge and then dragging him back in tortuous, tantric denial.

Yuuri deserves it, he supposes—he'd marched off the ice in a fit that would have made Yurio proud after failing to land even any of the quads in the run Victor has him doing now, and while usually this would have rolled off his back, since winning the _Onsen on Ice_ , he's started expecting more of himself, pushing himself harder, being less patient with his failures. Victor had followed after him, calm and serene, letting him hobble about on his skates as he tried to pace angrily and failed. He'd made for the benches, done with training for the day even though it was barely noon—but he'd never made it there, instead jerked around and shoved against the wall of the locker room with Victor _right there_ , nose brushing his own and gaze piercing, pinning him in place. They'd held there, like that, for several long seconds, and Yuuri had been proud that this time, he hadn't so much as whimpered when Victor had tugged at the tie of his waistband.

He's been a brat today, thinking he's better than he really is and throwing a tantrum when he doesn't meet his own ridiculous expectations. But Victor clearly does not entertain similar delusions, only works him steady and solid until he's releasing all the energy and frustration pent up inside in a burst of pleasure that has him seeing stars. Victor doesn't tell him he'll feel better this time, but he does, even if he's quite confused.

And that's how it starts. Yuuri tries to figure out when it's coming—when he'll _need_ it—but it's as unstable and capricious as his own emotions these days. Sometimes he'll go a week with nothing but ruffled hair or a squeeze of his shoulder for landing a loop without wobbling, other times it's three days in a row even though he's fallen on his ass and scraped his palms nastily.

Victor never asks for anything in return—almost avoids it, it feels like—and if Yuuri had any delusions that this involved feelings of any sort, the fact that Victor refuses to kiss him shuts that train of thought down quite cleanly. He'll kiss Makkachin's nose, he'll brush his lips over Yuuri's mother in gratitude, but never does he offer what Yuuri's tried—and failed—to take on multiple occasions. He thinks the frustration of not being able to scratch that particular itch, in and of itself, fuels subsequent liaisons.

But then the competition season starts, and Yuuri assumes this is the end of this business as they need to start focusing on a strategy, a path to gold at the finals. But the more he thinks about the finals looming at year's end, the tighter that knot in his stomach grows—a physical manifestation of the realization that somewhere there is a clock, and it is ticking down the moments he has left with Victor mercilessly. He scrapes his knee and nearly wrenches it during practice before his Japan Open routine, and he's frightened and frustrated and desperate in the locker room when suddenly Victor is _there_ , still with him and solid and real, having chosen him and committed to him in nearly every way possible. He doesn't know what else Victor can do to reassure him, so he accepts the only thing Victor can offer, and with one arm looped around Victor's neck to hold him tight, he uses his free hand to guide Victor's hand to the elastic band at his waist. Once Victor has him, he wraps both arms around Victor and holds on tight, molding his body to Victor's to try and memorize it. He doesn't care why Victor does this anymore. He just knows that he's never going to _feel better_ again once it's gone.

It's December. This doesn't mean much in Kyuushuu, since the temperatures rarely dip out of the teens until at least January, but it still feels cold. Maybe that's because it's after midnight and they've just finished the long journey from Minsk, bone tired and sapped but triumphant. There are no throngs waiting to hail the conquering hero, but Yuuri likes it this way. They aren't expected until tomorrow, so slipping in unnoticed like this suits Yuuri just fine. He knows there's not much time left. A few days, maybe—less if Victor is as quick about packing to leave as he had been to arrive—and he can feel the panic starting to claw at his throat, but he bites it back, bidding it keep its quarters until they're somewhere more private than Yutopia.

The taxi doesn't drop them off at Yutopia, though—but instead at the Ice Castle. It's dark and foreboding at this hour, but Victor finds the key Yuu-chan has left them hidden under the welcome mat at the front doors. Victor knows him well by now—or maybe this is just his way of saying goodbye. He's done what he said he would: placed Yuuri on the medal dais and restored in him a love for the sport he'd thought he'd long since lost. But Victor is a fickle thing, Yuuri has learned—like a crow, enchanted by all things new and shiny. He's kept his promise—Yuuri's barely managed to keep his figure with all the _katsudon_ bowls they've shared—and now he's on the prowl for his next great adventure, and Yuuri will have to remember what it's like to skate for himself and not to please Victor or prove that he's been worth these past eight months and not a wasted season. 

He wants to _keep_ showing Victor that—there's so much more he has to give, if Victor would accept it. But that's too much, and Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek until he draws blood and readjusts the bag on his shoulder, heading for the changing rooms and wishing his cock wasn't already half-hard with anticipation. If it knew this was going to be the last time, it wouldn't be so eager.

But Victor stops him, a hand on his arm, and jerks him back, whirling him around until the bag slides off his shoulder and his back's against the vending machine—and then Victor is _kissing_ him, and Yuuri forgets to be confused (and forgets there are security cameras on the lobby) and just melts, because it's always too _hot_ with Victor. He fingers scrabble for purchase, latching onto the lapel's of Victor's coat and tugging him forward, trying still like he's been since this whole mess started to memorize Victor bodily. It's sweet and slick and they're breathing heavily and rutting against the vending machine—it's better than Gold, and when Victor smiles against his lips, he wonders if maybe he actually said that out loud.

"Feel better?" Victor asks, voice quiet but light and easy as ever, and Yuuri manages a dazed nod, though he's torn they've stopped kissing. He tightens his grip on Victor's lapels to pull him down again, lifting onto his toes and angling his chin up needily, but Victor just offers a soft peck and rubs their noses together. "After you've managed that last series of triples—you're lucky Yurio rolled his ankle trying those quads I warned him against, or this would be a very different color." He traces the relief etchings of the gold medal that Yuuri hasn't taken off since receiving it, still amazed it's his. "Run and get laced up."

Yuuri reaches for his bag reflexively—then pauses, frowning. "...You're not my coach anymore."

"Oh ho? Backtalk, now?" Yuuri doesn't rise to the goading, and Victor's haughty expression softens, brows raised. "I'm not?" Yuuri holds firm, refusing to back down, and Victor cocks his head, inquisitive. "Then what am I?"

Yuuri blinks, face going slack, then he hardens his lips into a frown again. "I...I don't know." But he knows what Victor _isn't_.

Victor, though, as usual, is two steps ahead of him—halfway through a routine Yuuri can't follow and blinding with the glint of the spotlights off his blades. He snatches up Yuuri's bag, slinging it easily over his shoulder, and takes two steps, pausing underneath the sign directing visitors to the locker rooms. He turns, offering a backward glance through parted hair that's longer than it was eight months ago and fine as silk, Yuuri has learned. Yuuri can almost hear the clock hands in his mind winding down, finally ticking their last, heavy _tock_ as Victor smiles crookedly and asks with a lilt in his voice, "...What do you want me to be?"


	5. Only place I want to be is with you ~ scent

Yuuri was exhausted—in body, in mind, in heart. He felt stretched too thin, a shade wandering the halls of his family’s inn, and the soft din of life downstairs seemed somehow more distant and removed than usual. Which was fine by Yuuri, as he didn’t particularly want to be bothered just now.

He shouldered his way into his room, dragging his suitcase behind him, and wheeled it into the little nook at the head of his bed with one hand as he began to peel off layers with the other. He might have reconsidered coming home at all after the Rostelecom cup before the whole health scare with Makkachin—Victor had mentioned his apartment in St. Petersburg at one point, and it was a much less taxing flight from Russia to Barcelona than from Fukuoka. But with Victor’s urgent return to Japan and barely scraping into the Finals, Yuuri had ached for the small comfort of his own bed and his mother’s katsudon. He hadn’t really won, but he hadn’t lost, and that had to be worth at least a few nibbles.

Hanging up his jacket, he turned on his desk lamp and threw shadows across the room—revealing a rather rumpled bed that looked like it had only hastily been made. Had Makkachin been in here burrowing himself a nest while they were gone? But no, the sheets were tucked under the mattress, and the pillow seemed to have been recently fluffed. With a suspicious frown, Yuuri settled on the edge of the mattress and brought the pillow to his nose, giving a wary sniff.

Mint and vanilla and something soft and clean—Victor’s shampoo, some fancy boutique brand Yuuri had never heard of, likely because they didn’t stock it at the corner grocery store. He slid down onto his side, face still buried in the pillow. Had Victor slept here? He had a huge bed, large enough to fit four people easily—why would he want to crawl into Yuuri’s cramped little single?

But he knew why, of course—he only asked the question because there was still a little part of himself that no amount of praise or borderline worship from Victor would ever be able to stamp out that told him he wasn’t worthy, no one would ever find him attractive or intimidating or an object of fear or awe. No one that _mattered_ , at least—and certainly not a living legend, a god among men. No matter how many bone-crushing hugs he received, no matter how soft Victor’s hands felt when he caressed Yuuri’s cheek, no matter how tender and heartfelt his words…

No matter how soft and gentle his lips—there was a demon, deep inside, whispering in his ear that he hadn’t _earned_ this, and that he never would. That Victor was just waiting to be granted his freedom, champing at the bit to go. To go back to Russia, back to Yakov, back to his adoring fans.

These were uncharitable thoughts, Yuuri knew. When Victor held him, when he looked at Yuuri—really _looked_ at him and saw every last humiliating fragment of his being—he wasn’t doing it out of pity, or even a moment’s fancy. He was there, with every fiber, present and invested in Yuuri. He hadn’t been scared off by proclamations of love, hadn’t been intimidated by demands for his attention. He was Victor-fucking-Nikiforov, and he wasn’t about to be undone by a mediocre skater with a weight problem from some backroads podunk town in south Japan.

“…Except I did undo him…” he whispered into the pillow, feeling the tears he’d barely kept banked at the airport threatening to spill over. He could still hear the wistful _I wish you’d never retire_ in his ears, the hitch to Victor’s voice. A kiss he could still feel on his finger, silent _yes_ to some unspoken proposal that Yuuri honestly— _honestly_ —hadn’t meant to sound as such but once it was out, couldn’t deny. 

He’d stolen Victor from the world, and now he was realizing that there were real consequences to that. Not the glares and sniffed sneers of the crowd or fellow skaters—that he could live with. Could _thrive_ on so long as Victor was there standing proud and tall beside him. No, it was the guilt. Not guilt for depriving the audience of Victor’s glory, but of depriving _Victor_ of that glory. He wasn’t someone who was meant to quietly step back and assume the role of coach. He was meant to be out there, skating until his body couldn’t take it anymore, dancing on flashing blades until an usurper stole his crown. He was meant to go down in glorious destruction, not to wither away at Yuuri’s side. 

No matter how much he wanted to.

“Ah—you realized…?” Yuuri sat up with a start, sending the pillow flying across the room to nearly knock his desk lamp into the trash. Victor watched it go with one slender brow lifted in amusement, then turned back to Yuuri with his hands clasped before him in penitence. “I know you like your privacy, but you weren’t here and…” He let his hands drop away. “…I just needed to.”

He looked so vulnerable, standing there in one of the inn’s robes, hair dark with moisture, as he’d evidently just stepped out of the bath. Yuuri needed one too—he’d spent the better part of today traveling in one cramped cabin or another, and it probably smelled that way. 

When Yuuri didn’t immediately respond to the confession, Victor seemed to take this as permission to encroach a bit further and poked his head into Yuuri’s room, giving it a once-over, as if he hadn’t spent the past few nights sleeping here, as he’d just copped to. “It’s so small.”

“It’s cozy,” Yuuri corrected.

Victor fixed his gaze on the far wall, cocking his head in confusion. “But so bare…no decorations.”

“I—er, I wasn’t home for a long while, when I was training in Detroit. My parents mostly used it for storage.” Hopefully Victor hadn’t scoured his room closely enough to notice the shades of torn-down posters lining the walls. Yuuri didn’t need to impress upon Victor just _how_ pathetic a fan he’d been only a year ago.

A year ago… A year ago he’d finally secured a spot in the Grand Prix Finals and was about to step out onto the same ice as Victor for the first time. He’d not had the chance to go up against him during the series itself, so he’d told himself he _had_ to make it to the Final. It would be his one and only shot. 

He’d wasted it, of course—not only putting on an embarrassing performance that put his previous Cup routines to shame but getting assaulted by Yurio in the bathroom and mistaken by Victor himself for nothing more than a star-struck fan. He hadn’t been strong enough to deal with the pressure back then—but he liked to think he was now. He was strong enough to do a lot of things, actually.

He reached for his phone, checking the time for show. “Oh wow, I didn’t realize how late it was…no wonder I’m tired.”

Victor rested his hips against Yuuri’s desk, arms over his chest. “…I suppose I’ll let you have a good night’s rest before I dig into you about that abysmal FS performance.”

Yuuri winced but couldn’t stifle the naughty little smile that always wormed its way onto his lips when Victor threatened a critique. “I was worried about Makkachin.”

“You told me you’d be fine.” And he didn’t sound as teasing now, so the smile slipped away. “…I thought…” Victor grimaced, glancing down at his feet as he tapped the tatami with a toe. “…I thought it was my fault.”

“Wha—of course not! You know how I get when I’m thinking about things! I told you—I was worried about Makkachin.”

“Was that all?” Victor took a step forward—and then another, until Yuuri had to pull back and crane his neck upward to meet his eyes. He braced a hand along Yuuri’s jaw, holding him in place. “Was that all you were thinking about?”

Yuuri swallowed—because Victor knew he was lying, but he didn’t know _why_ , so Yuuri could still fib his way out again. “…I missed you.” Not a lie, so it might pass muster. “I know it’s stupid—we’ve spent the past eight months together, and I skated for more than ten years without you just fine. Why should being without you for a few hours screw me up like that?” Shit, no—that was too raw, but he couldn’t stop it coming now, and so he kept speaking, the words coming more quickly than he could process whether or not they were even appropriate: “But when I saw you at the airport…I couldn’t—” He brought his hand up to his cheek, covering Victor’s, and gave a little squeeze, because sometimes silence was more effective in getting their point across than words. “I just— _needed_ …”

Victor’s free hand came up to his shoulder, applying gentle pressure to send him down onto his back, then with a soft nudge, he forced Yuuri to make room on the narrow single mattress. Their heads rested, noses brushing, on the pillow that smelled of Victor’s shampoo. He still had his hand on Yuuri’s cheek, and his eyes were in shadow, bright pinpoints of reflected light the only sign of life in their dark depths. “It was the same for me. I’ve—never felt like that before.” He frowned, a bit chagrined. “I thought I might cry—I don’t know the last time I cried.”

Yuuri smiled despite himself. “Crying’s good for you. You feel better afterward, somehow.”

Victor humored him with a wan smile. “I don’t like crying. I don’t like seeing others cry.” He brushed a thumb over the bone of Yuuri’s cheek, just at the corner of his eye, and Yuuri wondered if he knew he’d been trying to hold back tears. “…I hate seeing you cry.”

Yuuri reached up, taking his wrist and drawing his hand away—then laid his lips against a knuckle and breathed in. Mint and vanilla and soft and clean. Maybe his body soap came from the same fancy boutique. “I’m probably going to cry a lot more…before this is all over.”

Victor pursed his lips, as if this did not sit well with him. Probably because it didn’t. “Is there anything I can do about it?”

Yuuri just shook his head, sighing as he snuggled closer to Victor. “Just be there. Stay by my side, until the end.”

“Who says it has to end…?”

“Everything ends, Victor.” There were no living legends, not really. Victor wasn’t a god-among-men, only Victor—an affable drunk with money to burn and no concept of personal space or modesty. 

The Grand Prix Finals would open and close, the year would roll over, and in a few weeks, this pillowcase would have been washed so many times it would smell of nothing but detergent and fabric softener, no mint or vanilla to attach memories to whatsoever. Everything faded—it only mattered what you did with the time you had. How you bade goodbye to the things you lost: whether you let it go quietly and somberly or raged in a humiliating display.

He’d spent his whole life embarrassing himself—he wouldn’t do that to Victor.

He was distantly aware of lips against his forehead, searing like the kiss he could still feel, fading, on his finger, and a whispered, “Only if we let it.”


	6. happiness ~ you’re good at what you do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [these cute Victor+Yuuri+Yurio kitty plushies](http://homodachin.tumblr.com/post/154101034893/so-remember-that-moment-in-episode-9-where-yurio) that Yurio received at the Rostelecom Cup!

_/I’ll be down in five minutes—don’t come get me./_

Yuri tossed his phone onto the bed and flopped down on his back, the springy hotel mattress sending him bouncing a bit before finally settling as he stared up at the ceiling. He shouldn’t be nervous—he _wasn’t_ nervous. There was no reason to be, after all—he had this in the bag. His short program had been flawless, and he’d been working on Victor’s quad flip in secret for three months now, ready to whip it out here at Worlds in his free program tonight. But he still felt…on edge. Like something was off—and he didn’t need any distractions right now.

He eased back upright, glancing down at his phone again, before deciding against doing anything he’d soon regret. No, he didn’t need them here—he could do just fine ( _would_ do just fine) without them screaming mortifying things like _”Yurio!! Ganbaaaa!!”_ from the stands. He shivered at the thought, gritting his teeth, then pushed himself off the bed as he readjusted his jacket, smoothing down the material.

His suitcase rested on the low desk near the television set, and he gravitated toward with a frown, flipping open the top flap and frowning down at the pair of cat plushies staring up at him with black, glassy eyes. They were cute—in a ‘so ugly they’re cute’ way. Yuri didn’t quite understand why he’d felt compelled to shove them into his carry-on before departing Moscow, but here they were, grinning at him goofily and practically begging him to pick them up, perhaps give them a quick little hug. Just for good luck. Again, not that he needed anything like that.

He grabbed each roughly by the neck and collapsed back onto the bed with them, holding them up with a sour sneer on his lips. “There, happy?” The stuffed animals, being what they were, had nothing to say in return, which left Yuri feeling rather silly. He brought them down to rest on his stomach and gave them little scritches behind the ear, though only because he was sorely reminded that his own cat was several thousand kilometers away at the moment. “…I don’t need you here, got it? I’m not some snot-nosed brat who _needs_ people. It’s just everyone expects you here now, so when you’re not around, I get hounded by questions from reporters. So be a little more thoughtful, jerks.”

He forced the gray one to cock its head curiously.

“Don’t look at me like that—you know what I mean! It’s annoying when you’re around, but if you’re _gonna_ be here, then be here! Otherwise just stay the hell away. Swanning in and out like people are just gonna drop everything they’re doing to spoil you…” He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not Katsudon.”

At this, the black one feigned a swipe at his hand, and Yuri snickered.

“Come on, I’ve called you _way_ worse than that. Plus you started that stupid nickname for me too, so we’re even. Do you have any idea how few people even call me by my _real_ name now?” He flicked its nose. “It’s either Fattie or Katsudon. Pick one.” No response, so Yuri shrugged. “Fine. Katsudon it is.”

He sighed. This was ridiculous—and if he didn’t get going, Yakov was going to come charging up here to break down his door, and he sure as hell didn’t want his coach wondering what Yuri was doing having tea time with a couple of stuffed animals right before his Worlds performance. He stared at the cats, feeling a sudden bitter upswelling of emotion curling around his heart and tugging insistently. “I don’t need you here, okay? I don’t. …But you should still hurry up and come back from your stupid not-a-honeymoon trip soon and rescue me from Yakov. I’m getting so fucking tired of this creepy, gross sexual tension between him and Liliya. Don’t they know I still live with them? Do they think I’m deaf…?” He turned the cats to face each other, then pressed their noses together in a rubbing motion. “Eew, gross! You really have to do that in front of me? I’m not trading one disgusting couple for another if you’re gonna do that kind of crap! Makes me barf.” He feigned wretching sounds, gagging dramatically, and then tossed the dolls down onto the bed, where they stared at him with their unseeing black eyes. Reaching forward, he gently flicked the toy bell on the gray one’s collar. “…I wanted you to see this in person…but I guess you and Katsudon will just have to check out the bajillion retweeted clips that are gonna hit twitter in the morning instead.”

Loud banging on his door sent him jolting with a start, and Yuri cursed under his breath, quickly lining the kitty plushies up next to his pillow and giving them sharp pats on the head. “I’m gonna go kick ass now. I’ll show you my gold when I get back tonight.” Then he was on his feet, snatching up his lanyard from the desk, and out the door.

He didn’t need Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki. He could survive without them, sure.

But it didn’t mean he didn’t miss them like _hell_ when they weren’t around now.


	7. the look in your eyes ~ Do you love me?

"Can't you sleep?"

Yuuri gave a little jolt, fingers clenched in a death grip on the duvet he'd pulled up to his chin as he stared at the ceiling. He couldn't see anything—it was dark, for one, and his glasses were folded neatly on the nightstand at his side for another—but the alternatives were to stare out the window on the eastern wall at an unfamiliar vista and the eer-blinking lights of civilization filtered through gauze curtains...or to roll over and stare at his bedmate, who clearly was as awake as Yuuri at whatever ungodly hour it was.

He grimaced in apology. "...Jet lag, I guess. It'll hit me tomorrow probably—you know I'm bad with time differences."

Victor _hmm_ ed softly from the other side of the bed. Yuuri could feel his eyes on him, that heavy gaze tempting Yuuri to look his way. "We'll have the weekend to recuperate; I've asked Yakov not to expect us at the rink until Monday. Should give you time to adjust to the hours. Unpack. Settle."

Settle. _Settle_. Victor expected him to be able to _settle_ , when it felt like every fiber of his being was vibrating with some high-pitched frequency only Makkachin could hear. Every creak of bedsprings, every soft sigh of relaxation, every rustle of fabric set him on edge in a way he hadn't thought possible.

He was just so damn _happy_.

He was lying here, in Victor Nikiforov's bed, staring up at Victor Nikiforov's ceiling, with Victor Nikiforov's dog curled up snoozing in a corner, and Victor Nikiforov's ring on his finger. This wasn't reality. This was a fairy-tale—the little piglet made his way to the ball and danced the night away with the prince and they lived happily ever after. That's how those stories went. Not real life. Definitely not _Yuuri's_ real life.

Something brushed against his leg—Victor, poking him with a toe. "It helps you get to sleep if you stop thinking."

He closed his eyes for show, even though he was pretty sure Victor couldn't see him in the dark. "I'm not thinking. I'm just wound up from the traveling." It wasn't a lie, really—between China and Russia and Spain, and all the trips back and forth and around hitting nearly every island of Japan over the past six months, Yuuri felt he'd traveled the globe three times over. And he probably had. "Plus I'm a night owl. I'm used to staying up late. You should go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep if my bedmate is still awake." Yuuri imagined the expression on Victor's face—cheeks puffed out, brows drawn together. He was going to have wrinkles by the time he was 35, Yuuri was sure. "I wanted to wake up early and make us breakfast—now I'm going to be too tired."

Yuuri tried not to appear too eager as he threw back the duvet and shifted upright. "Ah—sorry, I didn't mean to keep you up. I'll go lie on the couch or someth—"

A hand, on his arm, holding him. "What—? No." It squeezed, meaningfully, and Yuuri knew that if he glanced down at it, if the moonlight hit it just right, he'd catch the glint off of gold. "I want you here."

The way he said it—not petulant, not pouty, only overwhelming in its honest sincerity—went right to Yuuri's chest, wrapping tight tendrils and _something_ around his heart and squeezing until he almost couldn't breathe. Even now, nearly a year later, he still didn't know what it was called. Was still calling it 'love' just because he didn't have another name for it, even if he hadn't the faintest clue as to whether or not that was accurate. He knew it was real, and he knew it was important—he knew what it made him want to do, what it made him scared to do. And Victor tried to show him, he suspected, in his own quirky way that he was similarly struggling—having all these wants and needs and desires for a dozen different things in life, trying to figure out which ranked where. Stacking Yuuri higher than he felt he rightly deserved.

He slid back down, letting the hand on his arm draw him closer while Victor's free hand drew the duvet cover back up over them. He was wearing pants, at least—that had been his concession when he'd wheedled Yuuri into sharing the bed. There hadn't been much choice, admittedly; Victor's apartment was _tiny_. He could surely afford larger, but Victor had explained that he barely spent time here as it was. "Why waste the money on a bigger place when all I was going to do was sleep here?" he had reasoned, and Yuuri supposed that made sense—but it meant that bedding arrangements were awkward at best, and though sleeping on the couch would have spared his sanity and likely been better for his overall mental health, the exhaustion of travel had tempted him into the plush mattress and freshly laundered sheets.

Victor's hand slid from his arm, down and over his wrist until they brushed palms, and he threaded their fingers together lightly, an easy lattice that brought their rings together with a light clack. In the dark, Yuuri blushed, and clenched his fingers with a tight squeeze. "I'm here."

They were sharing a pillow now, and this close, Victor was a blurry form limned in soft, filtered moonlight, his eyes tiny pinpricks of illumination. Even still, it was too much, and the tendrils of _whatever_ tightened around his heart.

"...Do you think you can be happy here?"

Yuuri blinked. What a strange question—to ask at any time, really, but _particularly_ past two in the morning. "...What?"

He could see Victor's brows cinch, smile going funny—a little sad, it looked like. "This isn't where you wanted to be."

He wanted to laugh—because _wow_ Victor could be really, hilariously thick sometimes. "Not where I wanted to be? Why would you think..." And now there was no smile at all—just one of those _frowns_ , the 'I know you're bullshitting me and why do you think I'm going to let you get away with it?' ones. He swallowed. "...It's not where I saw myself, no." The vise-like grip Victor had on is hand loosened, but Yuuri just tugged it close, placing Victor's hand under his own cheek, guiding him where it was okay to touch for now, until...until Yuuri _settled_. "But that's not the same thing." He turned his head to the side, placing his face in Victor's palm and breathing, slowly, carefully. Wanting to feel that warmth all over, not because he was cold, but because he just felt like that might ease the crushing weight of whatever this was heavy on his heart. 

He wanted to touch Victor all over, skin to skin with nothing in between, to memorize the feel of his body and take in all that warmth. He didn't want to stay on his side of the bed—he didn't want to _have_ a side of the bed. He just wanted to wrap himself around Victor, to curl around him and crush him to himself just so he finally realized what Yuuri's heart felt like. So that he _understood_ , and maybe could explain what it was. If it was love, or maybe just some bad borscht on the plane ride over. 

Victor's other hand came up to lay against his other cheek, thumb sliding over the high ridge of his cheekbone and brushing soft down his jaw. "You'll tell me if you're unhappy, then? About anything. Even me."

"Why would I be unhappy with you?"

"I'm sure we'll think of something." Yuuri laughed, for real this time, and he could see Victor smile reflexively in response.

It felt like...he was supposed to do something here. Something—like their rings. To show his gratitude. To prove that, even for a moment in time, there had been something real and special between them. Something just for them, and if the rest of the world wanted to make a big deal out of it, let them. There was no one else here right now, no one else here to say what they should or shouldn't do—and that in itself was its own kind of pressure. Too much freedom for comfort. 

He took a breath. "Can you make me happy here?"

A soft shudder rippled through Victor's fingers, and his grip on Yuuri's head tightened to draw their foreheads together. Some part of him was running around screaming that this was close, too close, _way too close_ , but the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears drowned it out as it struggled to pump blood under the crush of those tight, tangling tendrils. He wasn't close enough by _half_ , he told himself, and when their noses brushed, he let out a soft, strangled whine as the urge to press forward came out of nowhere and nearly tore him apart, only just narrowly reined in before he embarrassed himself. 

"Nothing would please me more." He tilted his head up, pressing his lips gently to the tip of Yuuri's nose. "Only tell me how I can do it, and I'll make it happen."

And Victor would, Yuuri didn't doubt that. There wasn't _anything_ he wouldn't do for Yuuri, if he could at all manage it. Yuuri took his hand by the wrist, gently guiding it down to his chest and splaying the palm over his heart. "...It hurts."

"Your..." He frowned, rubbing over Yuuri's breastbone like a mother might do to a sick child. Yuuri wished he weren't wearing a shirt. "Chest?"

"My heart." He lay his hand over Victor's, keeping it pressed close. "...I'm not good with words."

"You speak two languages," Victor reminded, and Yuuri had to snort, a smile coming unbidden because it was such a _stupid_ thing to say in such a serious moment. Victor waited until the shivers of laughter had subsided before nuzzling just under Yuuri's jaw. "I speak three, though—and I'm learning a fourth. Maybe I can help you with your words."

Yuuri stared at the far wall—there was some landscape hanging over Victor's bureau, though he couldn't make out the subject in the low light. "Do you love me?"

Victor froze, no more nuzzles forthcoming apparently, and he pulled back with a frown before his mouth opened and closed several times in succession as he struggled to frame his response. "I...That's...why would you ask that?"

Yuuri shrugged. "You said you were better with words, so I thought maybe..." He pressed meaningfully over his heart. "You'd know what this was."

He wasn't naive. He knew love wasn't one thing and then nothing else. It was a million different things, feelings and emotions so strong they _hurt_ in the best, purest way possible, and people killed for it and died for it, so it was frankly a terrifying concept, but that was what Victor _was_. Beautiful and frightening and inevitable. He didn't want Victor trying to fit into any existing slot in Yuuri's life—he just wanted...Victor, and all of the emotions that came with him, nameless though they were.

He couldn't see it, but he heard Victor swallow, heard the soft hitch in his voice as he tried to compose himself. "...Do you think I do?"

Yuuri frowned. "I just asked—"

"You asked me to help explain your feelings. I'm asking you to help explain mine."

"Then—you don't know either...?"

Victor sighed. He sounded exhausted, and Yuuri was reminded with a guilty lurch that Victor was an early bird and wasn't meant to be up this late. "How do you recognize something you're feeling for the first time? How do you name it when you've never felt it before?"

"Never...?" It was hard to imagine Victor Nikiforov having never known love.

"Not like _this_ ," he amended, spreading his fingers wider over Yuuri's chest, and Yuuri wondered if he didn't have something nameless and obscure curled tight around own heart, crushing and choking until he couldn't think straight. "Not worth leaving the ice for. Not..." He shook his head. "Just you. Just this."

Tighter, the grip on his heart. "Maybe..." Victor's brows quirked, hopeful, and Yuuri licked his lips. "Maybe no one knows." He could see the brows falling again, in disappointment, and Victor's eyes dimmed. "I mean—that is, maybe...maybe it's different for everyone. Maybe everyone just...makes up their own definition. And if two people agree on it, then that's that." He gently, haltingly, extended a hand to Victor's chest. It was bare, smooth. Warm, like he'd known it would be. He had to remind himself not to _touch_ , just to touch. "Does it...I mean, is it like...like it is for me, for you?" He thought that maybe it was. But he needed to hear Victor say it.

Victor glanced down, then covered Yuuri's hand with his own, in mirror. "What do you think?"

Victor really liked turning Yuuri's questions back on him. "...It's beating fast." He swallowed. "...Mine is too."

"Doesn't that answer the question, then?"

It ought to, Yuuri thought, but it still didn't sit right. "...There's lots of different kinds of love, though. How do I know which one it is?"

"Who says it has to be one kind?" And who said that, indeed? "...I don't think mine is one kind."

"It's not...?" Victor shook his head, barely perceptible, angling his chin in invitation and tilting to the side. His nose brushed Yuuri's again, their breaths mingling, and this time Yuuri gave in, loosing his reins and taking that contact he'd been aching for with both hands. Victor smiled into the kiss, releasing a thrumming hum of delight that sounded perfectly out of place in a darkened St. Petersburg bedroom at going-on-three in the morning. 

Yuuri's chin dropped, trying to take in more of Victor than physically possible. The tendrils were coming unwound, loosening and he could finally _breathe_ again, but all he wanted to do was inhale Victor, take him in and feel him in his very veins. Not a ring, but a _brand_ , inside and out. He wanted to be Victor's, and for Victor's to be his in a way only they would know, just for them. 

He was panting, open-mouthed, and writhing uncomfortably against the sheets. "Victor...V-Victor, I want..."

"...Yuuri— _Yuuri_." The tone snapped Yuuri out of his haze, cold and sharp and brooking no argument, and he blinked stupidly in the darkness. His vision was nothing but blinking stars and floating dots—it could have been noonday bright and he didn't think he could've made out Victor's hand waving in front of his face.

"Huh?" Not the most eloquent of responses, but rather impressive for the moment, Yuuri thought.

"...I'm tired right now. We really should go to sleep."

"...Oh." Oh. Of course. That had been—shamefully forward, and he hadn't been invited to, had only given in to a base instinct and probably ruined a nice moment of—

Victor ruffled his hair, letting his fingers linger at the nape and lightly massaging the knot at the top of his spine, and pressed his lips to Yuuri's forehead, holding and breathing and nothing else. "...I'm no good after midnight. You know that." He drew Yuuri's hand up and around his side, letting it drape over him. If Yuuri curled his arm, they'd be pressed chest to chest. He made sure to not curl it. "I want to be wide awake for this."

His gaze was hooded, but this close, Yuuri could still see the pinpricks of light reflecting in his eyes, and he swallowed. "For...what?" He couldn't say it. He couldn't even _think_ it. Not with Victor looking at him like that. 

Victor cocked his head to the side, leaning forward just far enough to whisper into Yuuri's ear. "One of the kinds of love I feel for you."

And then Yuuri _did_ curl his arm, and he was hugging Victor, tighter than the tendrils had been wrapped around his heart. He was glad it was night, he was glad it was dark, because he didn't want Victor to see this smile. Not after hearing that. 

He could feel Victor's heartbeat through their chests, or maybe it was Yuuri's. Or both of theirs. It was steady and still a bit rapid but not racing, and not hurting. Beating in imperfect sychronicity, like a duet they still needed to polish. 

He released his grip, but kept his face buried in the crook of Victor's neck, and he smiled. "...I don't think we really figured it out, though."

A silent pause, and Victor huffed in amusement. "No. No we didn't, I suppose."

Yuuri withdrew, letting his head fall onto the pillow and feeling, of a sudden, utterly exhausted. Like he couldn't wait to get to sleep, if only to start the new day as soon as possible. He clenched a fist, enjoying the gentle bite of the ring on his finger. "...Let's ask Yurio on Monday if he knows."


End file.
